


And One

by strangeh (Elfgrandfather)



Category: Eastern Promises (2007)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-17
Updated: 2011-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:47:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfgrandfather/pseuds/strangeh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kirill experiences two firsts and Nikolai makes and revokes some concessions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And One

‘…and then he stabbed her,’ Kirill let out a short breath, cradling his vodka bottle closer, ‘it got pretty ugly, punches all over the place, bam, boom! You should’ve been there, Kolya. Hey.’

Nikolai opened his eyes when he felt the light tap of Kirill’s hand on his cheek. The other man had moved closer, his eyebrows lifted and his blue eyes slightly unfocused in his version of an annoyed look. They were sitting (sitting is a generous word) on a red velvet sofa in Kirill’s rooms. It was a beautiful piece of furniture, made of mahogany and with a matching coffee table, curved plant shapes carved out in the dark wood. Kirill treated it as he would a plastic chair from a pound shop, as he treated everything, but he’d tapped Nikolai on the back of the head once for almost putting his shoes on the plush surface.

‘You listening to me?’

‘Да1, да, Kirill,’ Nikolai murmured, a lazy smile on his lips, ‘your friends and their mistresses.’

‘They’re such fucking idiots!’ he laughed, then drowned his own voice with generous gulps from his bottle before hopping over into Nikolai’s lap, his back against the side of the couch, one arm gripping the other Russian’s shoulder, his lustrous black soles on the velvet. ‘Fucking idiots.’

Nikolai’s smile held patiently, and he slid his left hand through Kirill’s hair, the short strands greasy from Kirill’s efforts to smooth the curls out. Kirill made a little contented noise and continued nursing his bottle, occasionally proffering it to his companion and taking no notice when almost none of the drink vanished each time. Nikolai methodically raked his hand through the blonde locks, making them stand up and then flattening them again. During the day, Kirill would probably have bitched him out for it, but Nikolai was fairly certain that they wouldn’t be going out anymore.

No. Kirill had made them a nice dinner (ever since his father had been taken out of the picture, he’d continued his restaurant routine at the Trans-Siberian, and hadn’t been doing much else. While he checked the usual drugs and whores were arriving safely, he didn’t seem to accept or understand the enormity of his new responsibilities and much of Nikolai’s time was now spent picking up the slack, especially since the mob boss’ alcoholism had worsened) and they’d ended up in his private quarters, sharing bottles. Nikolai was a perceptive man, but one needn’t be to understand what was going on.  
Kirill tucked his head under Nikolai’s chin, and Nikolai could feel the man’s cheek against his left star, even through the fabric of his suit.

Nikolai’s mind drifted back a few weeks, shortly after Semyon’s fall, to when Kirill had first started actively pursuing his driver. Nikolai had, for a long time, been aware of Kirill’s lust, maybe even love, and just as he expected, as soon as his father had been taken out of the equation, Kirill’s strong defences quickly crumbled and he allowed himself to touch his driver more often and longer. Long holds and rare embraces became frequent, and on one occasion, he’d been an inch away from brushing his lips against Nikolai’s, during a particularly heated monologue about Scotland Yard.

So there had been no surprises when he’d finally grabbed Nikolai’s tie and pulled him in for a rough, clumsy kiss.

He’d pushed Nikolai against the closest wall and looked down at him through eyes hazy with drink, his breathing laboured. Their bodies, both clad in black, seemed to form a single grotesque shadow in Kirill’s dark apartment. Kirill’s need pressed against Nikolai’s thigh.

‘You a queer?’ he huffed, and Nikolai quirked his lip.

‘Sometimes.’

‘No, not sometimes. That’s stupid.’ He urgently pressed his mouth back against the other man’s, sank deeper into Nikolai’s arms, steadied himself against the wall with one hand. ‘Don’t be stupid, you’re not a moron.’

‘No.’

Nikolai was being honest. He wasn’t a full queer, but he wasn’t one to restrict himself either. Somehow, though, he got the impression that a sincere appreciation for both genders was something Kirill wouldn’t be able to comprehend.

Kirill’s mouth tasted so much like alcohol that Nikolai thought he might get drunk off him. He raked his hands through Nikolai’s hair, mussing the perfect slicked-back style, fingers slipping underneath Nikolai’s collar. He felt Kirill’s Adam’s apple bob as he made a frustrated sound.

‘Your clothes are too fucking tight, Kolya.’ He pushed him back against the wall, gripped the tie again, ‘and this thing, fucking useless. You could get killed with this.’ Kirill’s hand disappeared into his jacket’s inner pocket, and the switchblade made a short clicking sound as it snapped into place, gleaming in the moonlight. Nikolai’s eyes didn’t leave Kirill’s as the taller man slid the blade between Nikolai’s shirt and tie, and with surprising precision, sliced through the black silk. The expensive strip fell to the floor, uselessly, and Nikolai felt himself be thrown onto that red velvet sofa with similar carelessness.  
He’d barely hit the plump cushions and Kirill had renewed his assault, tongue probing the other man’s mouth, hands trailing everywhere. Nikolai was relieved to hear the clattering sound of the knife hitting the wooden floor. Kirill could easily have lost himself in whatever fantasy or point he was trying to make and sunk the blade into Nikolai’s taut flesh. Not that anyone would notice in maze of scars and tattoos that covered him.

Kirill stared at those same tattoos when he finally managed to pry his driver’s shirt open, momentarily stunned. His unfocused eyes trailed over the ink that peppered Nikolai’s body, and he briefly passed a hand over the stars tucked into Nikolai’s collar bones. His fingers were softer than Nikolai’s, hands unused to labour harder than carving up a chicken. Nikolai’s hands were rough and calloused on his behalf, his arms direct recipients for Kirill’s orders.

And then, on Kirill’s silent command, he allowed himself to caress his boss’ face, to unbutton his black shirt, to hold his head when he ducked down. Nikolai made a little sound as Kirill’s lips closed around his nipple, and a louder one when his teeth nipped a little too hard. Kirill smirked and continued his way down, sucking t patches of his partner’s flesh until he reached the Madonna on Nikolai’s flank. He gazed at her, her face half stretched over the bottom of Nikolai’s ribcage, the inscription under her, ‘cannot fool yourself’, traced it with his right thumb before kissing her on the mouth. Nikolai was aware of Kirill’s hand roughly handling his pectoral, and though he could feel himself getting hard, he couldn’t stop his eyes from rolling at how stupidly Kirill was handling this. The few times he’d managed to actually fuck a whore could probably be counted on one’s hands, and it showed.

Well, no matter. This leap in their relationship would help Nikolai’s plans tremendously, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t had worse before. At least Kirill was easy on the eyes, if not on much else.

Kirill sat back and looked down at Nikolai, who was giving him an approximation of his usual dispassionate look, the effect slightly spoiled by his hard breathing. Kirill grazed the scar on Nikolai’s cheek with his hand, a small smile on his face. Nikolai was pleased to note, as he had noted increasingly often, how tenderly Kirill looked at him when they were alone together. Taking advantage of that tenderness is what had led him to become the shadow boss of the Vory V Zakonye.

‘Kolya.’

‘Да, Kirill.’

‘Kolya, I…’ he let his hands trail back down, balled them up on Death and the Madonna. Nikolai covered them with his own.

‘Да, Kirill,’ he murmured.

A pained expression briefly passed on Kirill’s face, but he resolutely wiped his face with his arm and quickly undid Nikolai’s belt before turning him over onto his stomach. Nikolai’s shirt was fully untucked, he felt his trousers and underwear being slid off in one swift motion, heard Kirill cursing first under his breath, then loudly and he struggled with his own flies and shaking hands, heard him as he spat, and braced himself.

Nikolai was a quiet man in all aspects of life, but he couldn’t stop a loud gasp from escaping his lips, and the ones that followed it, as pain flared inside him. Kirill might as well have fucked him dry. Nikolai gripped onto the nearest cushion until his knuckles whitened, bit down hard on his hand to stop the whine in his throat, bit harder with every thrust, drew blood. He wrapped his fingers around his cock, half automatically, half in a futile attempt to take his mind off the agony behind him, and jerked himself miserably, emitting the odd groan. Kirill was mostly silent behind him, occasionally breathing mixes of Russian and English curses, occasionally moaning.

‘Kolya,’ he said, fingers digging into Nikolai’s thighs, ‘Kolya, you’re so good. I wish I could- I swear, I-‘

Kirill’s words died on his lips as he gave a final thrust, emptying himself inside Nikolai. He slumped on top of his driver, making them both slide against the back of the sofa, breathing hard and chuckling shakily. Nikolai quickly brought himself off and lay still, wondering how Kirill had managed to pump into him so often without hitting the prostate once. It was natural, he supposed, considering Kirill’s inexperience with men and his sole sexual contacts being rare trysts with whores, sex slaves. Objects.

Kirill slipped out of him and crept up Nikolai’s body to plant a few kisses against his neck and the back of his head, licking his lips to taste the sweat and cologne. With a final kiss, he stood up, his legs still weak, and stared at Nikolai as he lifted himself up, gripping the sofa with one hand and absent-mindedly holding up his trousers with the other. Nikolai could feel Kirill’s seed dripping down his leg.

Kirill didn’t notice any of Nikolai’s low wincing or limp as they cleaned themselves up, careless and presumptuous as he was with the girls in their whorehouses.

Later, when they were both lying on Kirill’s bed, white dressing gowns loosely wrapped around them, Kirill nuzzled Nikolai and, in a tiny, choked voice, mumbled words that could have been I love you. Nikolai smiled and kissed him, all the while promising to himself and any higher entity that he would never submit to Kirill this way ever again.

He snapped back to the present as Kirill’s hand cupped his neck and his tongue slid on his throat, that vow bright in his mind as sun on fresh snow. Nikolai smiled, put his left hand on Kirill’s chest, touching skin and hair immediately since Kirill didn’t seem to believe in buttoning the last quarter of his shirt.

‘Spilled vodka on there, Kirill?’

Kirill flashed him a smile, and moved to continue his (admittedly roughly successful) actions, only to be pushed away by the hand on his chest. Hurt and anger flashed on his features, before he took on his air of casual annoyance and took a swig of his bottle.

‘The fuck, man?’ he muttered, looking down at his vodka, ‘the fuck. It hasn’t been easy for me either, you know, but…’ Kirill’s voice trailed off uselessly, and he emptied the last contents of his bottle for lack of anything else to do. Nikolai had seen Kirill’s issues crystal-clear during the weeks following his initial confession. Kirill could still feel Semyon’s presence everywhere they went, lurking in every corner of the Trans-Siberian. He seemed to decide there were moments when his shadow father wasn’t watching, and used every opportunity to steal a kiss or whisper something that crossed the line of so-called normal male bonding ten times each way.

‘You sure you can get it up with all that in you?’

Kirill frowned and thumped Nikolai on the chest. ‘Of course I can, that shit’s like water. Don’t underestimate a Vor.’

Seeing he could be gearing up for a long one, Nikolai deftly leaned forward and slid his tongue in Kirill’s mouth, feeling the grip on his chest and shoulder tighten in a flash of rage at having been silenced, then relax as the alcohol and pent-up lust flowed through his body. Nikolai pushed Kirill back against the side of the chair, expertly manoeuvring himself to move on top of the other Russian without breaking apart from him once, the hand that was still on Kirill’s chest moving over the man tattooed on his chest to caress the stars and run down his side, Nikolai’s thumb pressing down hard enough to count his ribs. It was Kirill who broke the kiss, bowing his head down, breathing hotly against Nikolai’s collar.

‘I guess it is like water,’ Nikolai mumbled, distractedly passing a hand over Kirill’s stiff cock, savouring the gasp he got in return, ‘even grew a tree, Kiriusha.’

‘Don’t be a smartass!’ Kirill breathed, gripping Nikolai’s shoulders in a half-hearted attempt at establishing his dominance. Nikolai unbuttoned the rest of Kirill’s shirt, gently kissing the gradually more exposed skin and all the while thinking that if Kirill really wanted to, he could probably sit up and push Nikolai off. At the same time, if Nikolai wanted to, he could probably snap Kirill’s neck, but both options seemed about as likely. Kirill looked perfectly content to remain where he was, splayed out on the sofa, one foot barely touching the wood-panelled floor, but Nikolai remembered last time, and he wasn’t having any of that sort of unnecessarily fiddly fucking. He’d learned the hard way that come stains and expensive fabrics don’t get along and he never wanted to have to go through that cleaning experience again, especially with the other culprit slipping drinks while cooking meals downstairs.

Nikolai sat up, ignoring Kirill’s plaintive curse, and shrugged off his jacket. He nodded his head at a small corridor, loosening his tie at the same time.

‘Bed.’

Kirill took a while to process the word, then jumped up, tripped on himself and landed straight into Nikolai. He leaned into his driver, burrowed his head into his shirt. Nikolai supported him as they stumbled through the roomy apartment and crashed on Kirill’s bed, tongues mingling and hands roaming. Kirill’s shirt had been lost along the way, and Nikolai made short work of the rest of his clothes, leaving him sprawled on the sheets dazed, reddened and painfully hard in his black pants. Nikolai kissed his cockhead through the dark cotton, slipping his tongue over the head, hearing a groan.

‘Давай2.’

‘Да, да.’

He put his hands on Kirill’s hips and slid the pants down, eyebrows raising when Kirill’s dick escaped its constraints and bobbed back, almost flat against his stomach. Kirill moaned needily when Nikolai cupped his cockhead, propped himself up on his elbows to watch as Nikolai’s lips spread over the tip, suckling on it. He ran his tongue down the length of Kirill’s shaft, one hand working the base. Nikolai could feel his own hardness tenting his smart black slacks.

‘Hey, Kolya,’ stuttering on the K, one hand running through the other man’s hair, ‘take off your clothes.’

Nikolai looked up, both hands still on Kirill’s cock, not moving. ‘You want me to stop?’

‘No-‘ the word flew out like a bullet, ‘no. Just, just do what I tell you to do. Это мои приказ3.’

Nikolai flashed his much practiced indulgent smile, and knelt between Kirill’s legs. Slowly, his eyes never leaving Kirill’s, he unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the crucified Christ on his chest, hints of Death and the Holy Mother on his flanks, unbuckled his belt and carelessly threw it on the floor, where it landed close to where he had discarded his shoes minutes before. He brought his hand to his straining erection, palmed himself, groaning softly, bringing his fingers to barely touch Kirill’s dick, before bringing it back to unzip his flies. He lowered his trousers and pants in one motion, lifting both star-tipped knees in turn to step out of them, but leaving them near enough to reach. The front of his shirt hung around his thighs, partly obscuring the second Madonna on his body, and the saying on his other leg. Kirill’s eyes were wide and flickered from Nikolai’s face to his cock, sometimes to the tattoos he could see. He reached out and pulled forcefully on Nikolai’s shirt.

‘This too.’

He threw his arm to the side, exposing Nikolai’s left star and the smallest bit of the flowers on his arm. His smile still in place, Nikolai grabbed Kirill’s wrist and leaned forward, pinning his arm over his head and pushing their lips together. He licked at Kirill’s lower lip, gnawed at it with an edge of savagery as his other hand took hold of both their cocks, the friction causing Kirill to let out a surprised moan into Nikolai’s mouth. They rutted against each other, Nikolai’s hand abandoning Kirill’s wrist in favour of gripping onto his hair, his thumb slipping under Kirill’s gold necklace and almost bringing it up close enough to choke more than once. Their movements became slicker as both their precome coated their members and stomachs, Nikolai feeling the scratch of Kirill’s chest hair against his own smoothness more and more.

Nikolai broke apart from Kirill, who held on to the shirt so strongly he could easily have ripped it.

‘Don’t fucking stop!’ his voice was almost a yell, the same quick, hot rage that permeated most things Kirill did.

‘Not stopping,’ Nikolai said, his voice level if slightly strained, ‘trust me. We are partners, да? Trust me.’

Invoking the words he’d used on the New Year, months ago, worked their usual magic. Reluctantly, Kirill relaxed his grip on Nikolai’s sleeve. Nikolai reached over into his trouser pocket, fished out a small tube. Kirill eyed it suspiciously.

‘The hell is that?’

‘It’s a present,’ he said lightly, his tone coaxing, ‘trust me, Kirill. Get on your stomach.’

Kirill looked at him in silence, his face blotched red in a haphazard blush, fuelled by lust and alcohol. He looked incredulous for a second, then he looked away, lifting one knee and tucking his other leg near his thigh. Thoughts seemed to be racing through his mind, and Nikolai knew it could go either way.

‘Kirill,’ he murmured, edging closer, placed his head on the side of Kirill’s, ‘you want this. You can have it now, you’re the boss.’

Kirill’s eyes moved to the entrance of the room, as though he expected to find his father glaring at him from the door, then back to the wall he’d been staring at. He dry-swallowed, passed a hand through his hair, and mumbled something about needing another drink. He let himself face Nikolai, meeting him halfway for a deep kiss, then lowered himself onto the sheets, starred knees digging into the covers, and leaned forward.

Nikolai wasn’t used to luxuries like proper lubricants, but he knew that if he wanted to have Kirill where he wanted him, he had to indulge in his wishes, and making them as pleasurable as he could would go a long way. That, and a nagging feeling at the back of his skull didn’t want to see Kirill go through the same thing he had done when they first fucked, especially as a first-timer. He liberally slicked up his cock, then squeezed some lube onto his fingers.

Kirill almost yelped when the first finger went in, his fists balling up, clenching the cotton material on his bed. He swallowed some more.

‘’s fucking cold.’

‘It’ll get better.’

Nikolai moves until he judges he can add a second finger, then a third, coating the lube on the inside. Kirill doesn’t say anything, barely shifts at all, so when Nikolai thinks he’s ready, he pokes around until he hits a spot that makes Kirill moan and shake. Nikolai smirks.

‘Предварительный4.’

Kirill looks over his shoulder as Nikolai quickly strokes himself to full hardness and places himself between Kirill’s legs, one hot hand touches his back, Nikolai uses the other to guide his throbbing cock to where it needs to be, and slowly, deliciously enters him. The tightness is the first thing that hits him, an almost painful tightness, and Kirill’s breathing becomes even more ragged.

Nikolai grabs onto Kirill’s hips and starts thrusting in earnest, his shirt sticking to his back, sweat dripping down his forehead, his chest. He holds on tightly enough to bruise, and he does want to bruise, he wants to leave a bruise right where Kirill’s belt will hit it every time he moves for the next week, and that every time he moves, he’ll remember this, and forget his father. Nikolai moves expertly, angling his motions to rub against the right places inside Kirill, making him moan and groan and bury his head in his pillow. One hand travels to grab Kirill’s shoulder, to push him back into Nikolai’s bucking hips, to push him onto what he has wanted for months, roughly. The pressure builds up inside Nikolai, and he lunges forward to grip Kirill’s chest, his other hand moving to stroke Kirill’s pleading member, the first drops of come sliding down the shaft already. Nikolai grips onto Kirill’s pectoral with brute strength, thumbs the tip of his cock, pounds into him relentlessly, and he wishes Semyon could see them.

With loud curses in a mix of Russian and English, Kirill comes, his sperm hitting his stomach and dripping onto the sheets, and he crumbles completely, falling onto the bed when his elbows give away and slide sideways and he ends up with his forehead against his pillow, babbling more nonsensical made-up words. Nikolai finishes soon afterwards, a few thrusts later, and comes hard, pulling out in time to spread his seed onto Kirill’s lower back, white streaks against his white, winter-worn, English-weather skin.

Nikolai placed his hands back on Kirill’s hips, steadying himself. Panting hard, the feeling of tranquillity and sleep quickly filling him. With a sigh, he lay down next to Kirill, finally peeling off his shirt and dropping it somewhere, the air in the room seemingly cool against his searing skin. A minute or two later, Kirill sluggishly turned around and placed a hand over Jesus’ body on the cross, his nails digging slightly into the flesh in a not all too unpleasant sensation.

‘If you tell me to get the fuck out so you can get dressed, I will knock out your teeth,’ Kirill’s heavily accented English sounded tired but blissful, and even as he made his remark, he couldn’t control the grin on his face.

‘No problem,’ Nikolai replied, stifling a yawn, ‘I’m not getting dressed.’

‘Never?’

‘Yeah, alright. Sounds good.’

Kirill pressed a kiss to Nikolai’s lips, then to the cleft in his chin, putting his head on Nikolai’s chest in the end. Nikolai wonders about taking a shower, but sloth wins over and he decides he’ll wait until morning. Besides, if Kirill can lay around come-stained as well as drenched in sweat in apparent comfort, so can he, and he’d rather be basking in the glory of their new arrangement than anything else. He sat up briefly to retrieve his cigarettes and lighter from his trousers (he’d had the foresight to move them there earlier), and was soon greedily sucking down the tobacco. Silent minutes passed, the occasional sound of the fag being passed between them the only interruption, and Nikolai thought he could get used to a pensive and satiated Kirill if it made him shut up for so long.

‘You gonna be able to manage work tomorrow? You know,’ he gestured, cigarette in hand, ‘standing around and cooking.’

‘I told you, don’t underestimate a Vor, it’ll be the last thing you’ll do.’

Smiling, Nikolai put out his cigarette.

It may be, he thought. Or it may not be.

**Author's Note:**

> 1Yes  
> 2Come on  
> 3That's an order  
> 4Preview


End file.
